Break a Leg!
by Wraithlike
Summary: When seven cast and crew members of the Lord of the Rings Musical fetch up in ME before the war of the Ring, it’s going to take a lot to survive. Far from grease-paint and high E’s, what secrets are going to come out? And just why are they there?
1. Chapter 1: Thespians 'R' Us

**Notes to be dispensed below. Onward! **

~Chapter One~

~Thespians 'R' Us~

Most people, in their tales, enter Middle Earth with a sort of _bang _resounding in their heads. Deirdre was no different. But really, in the state that it was she entered the place she had so often inhabited in her dreams, if you had pointed this out to her, she probably would have spat some choice and colourful swear words in your direction and swatted ineffectually at you, before falling over.

oOo

The cast of the Lord of the Rings were a motley crew of friends and divas, joined and bound in a way that those who haven't been bitten by the theatre bug can never understand. The theatre binds you, it joins you, and upon entering through it's doors, you are a part of something much larger than you are. You are part of a family, be you husband or sister or orphan in your mundane life, you are part of that great unit known as "cast and crew". You belong.

There were many.

There was Fabian. Poet, Oxford Graduate, shy, quiet, studious and part-time librettist. Employed by the Lord of the Rings to make changes to song lyrics. His sandy hair was just long enough to be fastened away into a short pony-tail, and behind his tortoise-shell glasses, his pale blue eyes were lively.

There was Michael. Techno-nerd, to the extremes, and musical genius, having composed most of the tracks from the show by ear, adding his own little flairs to the notes. He was also one of the technicians of the show, and your resident well of information on the latest gizmos and gadgets, far before they should legally be known about.

There was Ritz. No one knew his real name, it was something he kept firmly to himself, but everyone had their suspicions. Director of the show, he tended to wear black constantly, contrasting sharply with his shock of white hair, and often confused characters and lines in the most hilariously agitated way, and had been flitting through Broadway theatres for some forty years.

There was Polaris, aptly enough, having just finished a run as La Carlotta from the Phantom of the Opera. Flighty, beautiful and fierce, she understudied Galadriel, and dreamed of playing the role, while performing as Glorfindel. She could speak four languages, was the daughter of an ambassador, and hit nightmare E in her sleep.

There was Kevin. Tall, dark and the rugged, quintessential Aragorn, with a Colgate smile. He was a perfectionist, with a strong voice, whilst being well-grounded and stoic, unsure of his role in the great world of acting.

There was Gregory. Exuberant, flamboyant and dashing; a bright spark in everyone's lives, with his jollity and mystery. There was more to Gregory than met the eye, and more below the English gentleman's surface than one thought. Hugely dramatic, the boy had been born to the stage, and had been waiting for his perfect role since he had graduated the London Academy years previously. Playing Legolas was a dream come true for he with the noble beauty.

And there was Deirdre. Painfully young, an Irish girl fresh from her home to New York, only nineteen and cynical as one thrice her age. Playing Arwen was the biggest challenge she was ever faced with, having stuck to camera work for her career, and never trusting her voice that much. Helpful, considerate and awkward, her disastrous clumsiness was a source of constant entertainment to everyone around her.

They all had adventures, bound as one family. Bound together, linked and bonded. They were one. They were the Lord of the Rings.

oO*Oo

Deirdre, nineteen, pale, and an actress, began her Middle Earthen life by falling down a flight of stairs in a theatre. A less romantic method could hardly have been thought of, especially, when upon waking in this mystical land of her dreams, the awesome costume that she had fallen in was almost completely covered in a layer of dirt and mud and, in her own words 'other random shite'.

It was opening night. Deirdre had lived through a fair few since her first foray into theatre at just ten years of age, but never before had she been one of the leading ladies of a musical, and certainly never anything so sacrosanct to her as her own precious Lord of the Rings. Silly as it was, she had the idea that the whole show was resting on her shoulders, and if she screwed up, they would flop, and that was it. It wasn't the best thought to have fifteen minutes before you were due to open the show. In Elvish.

Deirdre sat the dressing room she shared with the actress who was playing her understudy, and tried not to hyperventilate. She was clutching the liquid-like links of her silver Evenstar pendant in one pale hand, as if in prayer, and in the other, the telegram that her romantic-minded co-star and great friend had sent to her, along with a pink carnation.

_To my darlingest Deirdre,_

_First of all, calm. Calm, calm. Okay, calm? Good._

_Just a quick message to say 'break a leg!' and to assure you that you will be fabulous. And if you aren't, I'll smuggle you out of the theatre on my bike, and we'll elope in the Caribbean. I'll call you Wendy, and you can call me Jackson. It'll be fun._

_Estelio han, lovely! You'll be fine._

_Lots 'o luff, _

_LEGOLAS!! . . . or Greg. xxx_

Despite her death-pallor and the feeling that, should she open her mouth one fraction of a millimetre, she would projectile vomit all over her thoroughly expensive costume, (so expensive, in fact, that Ritz all but had her under armed guard while she was in it) she giggled. Gregory Peters couldn't be prouder of having gained the part of Legolas in the Broadway production of the Lord of the Rings, but still in public was the very sober opposite of his true self, and tended to be coy about his successes.

Suddenly, Deirdre felt better. Greg had that effect on her. At that moment, a knock sounded at the door, and before she could answer, he burst in.

'Hey!' she cried indignantly, and put on her best English accent.

'It is customary to knock before entering a lady's dressing room, you cad!' she sniffed, as Greg laughed, before running over to her, and picking her up off her stool, and twirling her around the room, singing, 'Opening Night! Opening Night!'

Deirdre squawked indignantly, but still wanted to giggle.

Gregory at last set her down, and gazed down at her with his pale blue eyes fever-bright. Deirdre took a moment to remark to herself just how handsome Gregory really was, and think for a moment how endearing his utter passion for the theatre was. But she shook the thought from her head; with a nature as camp as Greg's, it was difficult to know which way he swung, and Deirdre didn't think of him in that way anyway.

You learned not to, in theatre.

'All set?' he asked her. She glared at him.

'No! In fact, I'm having one of those moments when anything, and I do mean _anything _would be preferable to facing the masses singing in Elvish! I mean, Jesus! How do I know it's 'lasto I lam-ETH, or lasto I lam-ATH?? THAT KIND OF THING CAN MAKE ALL THE DIFFERENCE!!'

'Dee … you don't need to worry. Unless you're expecting some grammatically correct Elvish Fascists to show up, and flame us for our protégées mispronunciation.'

He frowned to himself, as he idly adjusted his Legolas-sash.

'Do they have Fascism in Elvish society? Hmm. Now, _there's _an idea. Oh, probably. But you'd know more about it than me … I never actually read the book …'

Gregory glanced up, and his eyebrow quirked confusedly.

'Deirdre? Are you shaking?'

'YES, I'M BLOODY SHAKING!! I am about to sing the opening number in a show as the leading lady for it's opening night on BROADWAY, and I'm only nineteen! Foolish! Young! Uninformed! Asthmatic! And I think I'm going to be sick,' she finished, flopping into a chair, and burying her head in her hands.

'Aw, Dee! Don't be like that! You'll be great. There is absolutely no need for you to feel nervous,' he told her, picking up a copy of the script, and leafing through the run over his lines.

'But I'm terrified, Greg! I'm singing the first song – in Elvish! I'm going to faint!'

'You won't faint. I stand right beside you, and if you start to faint, I'll threaten to propose to you. Again.'

She peered up to see his lazy grin spreading over his face.

'Knew that little joke would cheer you up. Like the telegram?' he asked, standing up from where he had knelt. She smiled at him, shakily.

'Of course I did. Always one for the theatrics, huh?'

He shrugged.

'That's why we're here, babe,' he told her, and made for the door.

'I'm okay to leave? You're not going to commit suicide in the next fifteen minutes? Well, ten, really,' he said, glancing at his watch, before double-taking and preparing to remove it.

'Why? What's happening in ten minutes?'

Gregory frowned.

'Curtain up. I was sent to tell you.'

'AGH!! GREG!! I still need to warm up!' she cried, leaping off the chair, and stumbling, before grabbing her shoe bag, and racing for the door. She paused before Greg.

'Be there at the mike?'

'Sure thing, kid.'

'Thanks Greg! I owe you one,' she called over her shoulder, racing for the stairwell, the light billows of her pale green gown floating beguilingly around her. Gregory smiled at the pretty spectacle she made, and sloped in the opposite direction to cause havoc for another few minutes, before retrieving his good-luck martini. Grown up, schmown up.

Deirdre thought she was going to cry. The vocal coach was at least three minutes away, and the curtain would rise promptly in ten. As she passed through one of the quicker routes, she could hear the frenzied beat of hobbit drums playing the pre-show entertainment, and ran faster. One flight now …

The top step was dark. It was dark in the corridors. True, she had run the steep steps countless times, but it only took one moment of a lapse in concentration to misjudge the distance. And it only took one moment to realise her mistake, and claw for balance. It took a few more after that to fall through the empty space, but luckily for her, it took very few of those short moments once she had begun tumbling head over heels to pass out in a blaze of head injuries and concussion.

Her last view of the world she had known all her short life was a strip of florescent emergency lighting, a concrete wall, and the dark depths of her unconscious mind.

The first view of the new world would be grass. Damp, dewy grass.

She had always preferred cinderblocks.

xXx

**A/N: I'm just asking for trouble here, aren't I? Well, yet another fic to be half-finished and abandoned, no doubt! But I have a bit of an idea. I probably won't update for a while, I have exams, you see, but I hope you like it. Don't think it's ever been done on this scale before.**

**Next up: Gregory admires costumes and wonders who spiked his martini, in true Legolas style. (He's a sweetie, isn't he?)**

**Won't update without reviews. It'll take you five seconds. Three, if you misspell things. ;) Love you all! -Wraithlike**


	2. Chapter 2: Beware the Tourist

~Chapter Two~

~Beware the Tourist~

When Deirdre awakened, her mouth was full of grass, and a nasty taste. Her panic returned immediately, with a resounding thumping pain a split-second later. Now, if only she could remember why she felt so panicked . . .

She shook her head dazedly and raised herself a little, spitting out the clump of grass that had taken up residence on her tongue, and grimacing. She put a hand to her heart as if to slow it manually, and struggled to pull herself together. It felt as if something fuzzy and perfumed had rubbed itself against her brain a couple of times too many, leaving only a vague memory of life behind.

Deirdre pulled herself to her feet, which somehow, seemed to take a lot longer than normal, despite the fact that she had mastered her high shoes long ago. It had, granted, taken a trip to the emergency room when she had misjudged where the edge of the stage was, but even so, eventually she stood, however wobbly, and leaned against a tree.

Now, there was definitely something wrong there. Totally something wrong with that thought. No doubt about it.

_Lean against a tree . . . _well, it makes sense, in the current surroundings, but –

Wait a minute.

TREES?? SINCE WHEN DO ANY DECENT THEATRES HAVE TREES IN THEM??

True, there were in fact, few theatres that _were _decent, and yes, many theatres _did _have trees in them, but most were made of ill-painted cardboard, and _all _were stage properties. But this tree wasn't cardboard, or fake, she thought, clawing at the bark so hard that vertical scratch marks were left indented into them, and one of her nails snapped.

'Damn it!' she muttered, raising a sparkly finger to inspect the damage, and wincing again as a new wave of head-ache hit her, but the pain helped her to concentrate.

Deirdre cast about herself vaguely and felt her breathing quicken, as she began pushing through the trees (there were a lot of them), shoving branches aside, but feeling all the while that this could no conceivable way be the theatre she was supposed to be scrambling through in desperation and the search of a vocal coach.

There was no way they would be able to afford the rent on a place like this.

After a moment of frenzied clawing, Deirdre decided that now would be a good moment to breathe, and think.

Okay. She could do this. She could totally do this. She had done much harder things than this. Breathe. Breathe. It's cool.

Actually, come to think of it, it was cool. Cold, in fact. She looked above the tops of the trees, knowing she wouldn't see the ceiling, and saw that the sky was darkening in the direction she was running, fading from a dusky pink to a deepening blue. This would all be thoroughly pretty if it wasn't for the fact that Deidre had never spent a night out of doors before, let alone ran through was appeared to be a forest unaccompanied. All the horror stories she'd ever heard (mostly from her embarrassing obsession with girly gossip magazines) came flooding back, until it came to the point where she'd prefer to have the scary man attack her already, so she could use some of her pent-up fear the ward him off. She's taken self-defence once. Even if it had been four years ago, and her Leaving Cert had all but erased the memory of everything that came beforehand.

Or had it been embroidery class?

But she'd never been much of a girl-scout, that was definite, and the thought of having to fend for herself in a completely alien environment was quite enough on top of all of her other worries to reduce her to tears.

Luckily, Deirdre tended to resent people who, in her words, 'cried at every hand's turn' and thus sat down and decided to attempt to think of things logically. It cannot be denied that her expression as she crouched on the bare ground was one of disapproval.

Okay. So, up to five or six minutes ago, she had been fleeing down the stair-case of a theatre to get to a stage. She had tripped, and then woken up on grass. In a forest.

Yeah, that made _lots _of sense. Tcha.

_Oh, holy sweet divine mother_, Deirdre thought, her vaguely Catholic up-bringing springing forth. She grasped a clump of grass in her right fist and ripped it from the ground. It came away with the normal amount of resistance one would expect from real grass.

_Okay, so … this forest is real, apparently, _she thought, restraining herself from rubbing her hand over the pale green folds of her Not-Even-Funnily-Expensive satin gown.

So this wasn't some sort of crazy set. Damn it. She could probably have dealt with that a lot better than the real thing.

How long had she been outside now? She couldn't remember well, despite feeling even more nauseous than she had in her dressing room. She face felt fevered; her fingers cold as stone. She restlessly rubbed her face, and shuddered, looking back down at her dress, before shivering, and thinking about how weird this all was, and wishing that Greg or Michael or anyone would just come along and admit to a huge joke in really bad taste.

It suddenly struck Deirdre that it wasn't likely to get any warmer and she couldn't hear anyone nearby, but even if she could it would still be a good idea to get out of plain sight. What if she had ended up in . . . some war-torn middle eastern country, and guerrilla warriors were about to leap into her path and shoot the innocent oddly clad Irish actress?

Deidre sighed, her brow furrowed, and raised herself with a shiver, crossing her scantily clad arms. Sure, she looked killer, but that wasn't helping the fact that she was freezing her ass off and her mind was turning increasingly paranoid.

Deirdre looked about, without the slightest idea of what to do, despite being somewhat of a 'Born Survivor' addict. She could … make a fire! Yeah, that was a good idea! The flames would alert people to rescue her!

Second thoughts fifteen seconds later, as Deirdre cast about futilely for some handily cut wood that might be lying around told her that no, actually, that would be a foolish idea. First of all, it might attract … bears, or something, or worse, tourists! Lured by the orange promise of warmth, _tourists _might crawl ferally from their shadows and steal her fire … or bite her, or whatever tourists did. Deirdre couldn't really remember. The world was growing a little hazy, and Deirdre's memory was starting to fade. She shook her head, and opted for another shelter.

She stumbled towards a nearby tree with a low crux of branches, and dragged herself up it with surprising ease, given the fact that, for one thing, her gown was floor length and had not been made with much in mind except a great spectacle in the right light, and the fact that Deirdre had never climbed a tree in her life. Unfortunately, Deirdre didn't like heights, and so, having dragged her train up, and wrapped it around herself, she settled herself with a thoroughly perceptible feeling of queasiness in her stomach, and a fevered insanity burning in her head.

oOo

When Deirdre awoke, without having realised that she had slept, it was to the happy sight of naked steel.

_Ah, shit, _she thought inelegantly, without being too much worried by the fact that there was a sword smiling away at her, just waiting to get acquainted with her thorax. It was totally a dream. Or a fever, she decided, shivering again, teeth locked together. Perhaps malaria, but anyway, it totally wasn't happening.

A voice cried something Deidre didn't understand. She squinted, her awful eyesight failing her through the darkness, and revealing absolutely nothing to her.

'Um . . . pardon?' she attempted. There was brief silence, before the same voice cried something else, louder. Deirdre winced as it fell on her ear at a keening pitch. She shifted to get a better look at her imaginary assailant, and then, as luck would have it, managed to lose her fragile balance and fall out of the tree. It didn't happen quickly; it was one of those long drawn out and thoroughly predictable falls, making it infinitely more embarrassing. She shifted, and her behind slid free of the branch. Her sweaty hands clutched at the tree, as her feet struggled for a hold, before her shoulders gave way, spinning her earth-wards head first, shrieking inelegantly. Her last thought before she hit the ground was a plea to God that she would wake up THIS time, being sick to death of this incessant nightmare.

Then, she passed out again.

Sometimes it was hard being nineteen.

oOo

Gregory awoke in some disorder, and soaked to the skin. The first things his reborn mind took in was a hell of a lot of bright blue for having just been dancing through the ill-lit, concrete catacombs of the theatre. And then a lot of unfamiliar noise, and a lot of shouting, and some resistance in attempting to breathe.

Then someone dragged him out of the water, and then Gregory's adventure truly began.

Choking, he was dragged ashore, as he later found it was, and into his line of vision, there suddenly appeared a lot of golden hair, framing a face that was far too fair to be human, or male. One of which, it was.

It said something quickly in a language that Gregory understood nothing of, but mattered little to him, considering that his body decided at this moment to throw up a lot of water. This occupied him for a few minutes, and so his mind took this time to get itself back in order. Gregory groaned, and retched, until his stomach was empty.

'Holy shit,' he moaned, before turning blearily to regard the anxious blonde thing that was crouching next to him.

'Alright, who's the wise guy? Who spiked my pre-show cocktail?' Gregory slurred out, shaking his wet hair. And then he stopped.

'Huh?'

His dark brown wig was still on. It had come unbound, certainly, because right now, a large quantity of dark brown hair that was quite obviously not his own was swishing in a seductively bedraggled manner about his face. He looked down, and saw his Legolas costume was still firmly in place, complete with green sash and bow.

'O-_kay . . ._' Gregory drawled slowly, and shoved his wig roughly behind his ear. He looked up at the blonde thing and froze.

It was quite obviously not human. It was frowning at him, delicately slanted golden eyebrows furrowing his pale forehead. Blue eyes blazed into Gregory's own pale ones, and elaborately bound golden hair gleamed wetly in the sunlight, fastened behind obviously pointed ears.

Gregory's jaw dropped, and a strangely contorted word mangled itself over his lips.

'Whmnaghadhijabah?'

The blonde being blinked, and attempted to speak to him once again, making fevered hand gestures. Gregory stared uncomprehendingly at his moving lips, and shook his head. The being paused, drew back slightly and tried again.

'Who are you?'

'Ah. Now _there's_ one I can answer,' Gregory settled back on what was apparently grass, and relaxed slightly.

'The name's Gregory, O Figment of my Imagination,' he grinned lazily, and shook more hair out of his way. The being frowned harder, and stood up, peering down at Gregory majestically. Greg could now survey with ease his garments, quite similar, in fact, to his own costume, but made finely, with precision and finished crisply, the sign of expensive tailoring. Gregory had always had an eye for costuming, and took his time to admire this one.

It was a pale blue long-sleeved tunic, shimmering softly, and embroidered with silver twists and symbols neatly, falling to knee-level. A white collar folded luxuriously beneath the tunic, and the brave fellow also appeared to be wearing leggings, and brown boots. Gregory was used to such displays of campness, living, as he did in the thespian world. Still, usually his imagination was more heterosexual. He wondered if this was his subconscious trying to tell him something. He shook his head, and decided it could be nothing more than the influx of water to his brain. Somehow, the thought was less than cheering.

The being appraised him severely.

'You will come with me,' he was told brusquely, and found that he had no choice but to follow, being suddenly surrounded by a small hoard of similar beings all clutching weaponry that looked, come to think of it, quite sharp. A rising sense of fear began creeping up Greg's throat. Usually, his imagination was not so potentially violent either. And he had just realised a surprising point.

_All_ of the other beings ears were pointed too.

Elves? His subconscious mind was peopled with _elves_?

Gregory blinked, as he was shoved along by some dark haired beings, and began to feel a very strong loathing to whoever it was that was putting him through this acid trip.

xXx

**A/N: Hope you like, especially my lovely one and only reviewer TeeneyTinyGee, because you're great. Hope you're all enjoying. I love Greg, myself, and Dee is a laugh to write. Cookies and a shout-out to whoever guesses the identity to the glorious elf who found Greg!**

**Next up: Gregory gets to grips with an errant hairpiece and comptemplates smashing a certain half-elven lord's face into a table, while Deirdre concentrates on not squeeing.**

**Please review. If you're reading this, pity me. I have exams in three days, and I'm writing fan fiction. I have no life, and no sense. Pity me. xxx  
**


	3. Chapter 3: I Like Pretty Hallucinations

~Chapter Three~

~I Like Pretty Hallucinations~

Deirdre awoke to the sound of singing.

Fair voices keened words she didn't understand, but could feel the sadness and longing in them, and it touched her profoundly, through the feeling of beginnings that she struggled through, as the darkness of her mind lifted.

She opened her eyes, at last, to a room bathed in golden light, clean and biblical. If she had ever imagined infinity, somewhere on the periphery of sleep and wakefulness, this would have been it.

'Am I dead?' she mumbled to herself, and heard something move beside her. With a great effort, she turned her head, and focussed on the man sitting next to her, smiling a fixed, tired smile, proved by unnatural paleness and shadowed eyes. His grin widened, and he laughed quietly, squeezing the hand he held in his own, which, she realised, was _her_ own.

'Not quite, love, though you gave me a terrible fright,' he laughed again, raising a hand to rake through his hair, before dropping it self-consciously.

Deirdre raised her head properly, and dragged herself onto her elbows, shaking her head. Her hair was suddenly down, and all of her thoroughly expensive and intricate extensions were all magically gone missing. Looking down, she noticed with some dismay that she was wearing something white, and her Evenstar costume had vanished.

'Ritz is going to murder me,' she remarked absently, surprised by how hoarse and groggy her voice sounded. She cleared her throat, waking up slightly, and winced at the pain. Gregory wordlessly handed her a glass off the bed-side table, which she downed in one, and swallowed experimentally.

She looked back to Gregory, who sat looking out of place, and some emotion Deirdre couldn't place.

'So, what's going on, Greg? Where are we?'

_How hard did I hit my head? And what cocktail of drugs did they give me? _

Gregory smiled nervously, and it hit Deirdre that the inexplicable emotion was discomfort. He looked utterly awkward and ill-at-ease, which was very, very odd. Gregory was the kind of boy who could blend in anywhere, and feel perfectly at home.

She suddenly began to panic again.

The last thing she remembered clearly was tripping at the top of a staircase. Then, blearily, a forest . . . then, even hazier, a sword, and an odd voice.

She started.

'Bloody hell, Gregory, what's going on?' she exclaimed, as Gregory grabbed her hand, that had flown into the air to gesture with, and stroked it soothingly.

'This is real, isn't it?'

'Eh, yes,' Gregory hedged, 'but I don't know _how_ real, or where, or if this really _is_ real, or what.'

Deirdre stared at him.

'That makes lots of sense.'

'It does, if you really think about it.'

Deirdre tried to, but the resulting_ bang _in her head was much too painful for her to persist. Instead, she winced, and asked the first sensible question that came to her mind.

'How long have I been out for?'

'Dunno,' Gregory answered truthfully, yawning with his long-limbed, gangling stretch.

'I only got here last night.'

'When you say, "here" …'

Deirdre peered towards the white bay-window, through which yellow sunlight spilled. The sky was blue outside, and she could see the edges of green leafy boughs swaying gently in what appeared to be a light breeze. It looked pretty, but utterly unrealistic to a girl raised in a country where the appropriate adjective to describe the weather was _always_ "damp".

She looked back to Gregory and her voice was quiet.

'Seriously, Greg, what the hell has happened?'

Gregory sighed.

'Look, Dee, I don't know, alright? Here's my story from when I left you in the theatre: I went to walk back to find Kev, when I ran into what's his name . . . Frank, is it? Librettist . . . the other English guy, whatever . . . anyway, he crashed into me with his arms full of papers, so I helped him pick them up, he ran off, and the next thing I know, I'm in the water, and being dragged out by some crazy-ass blonde dude in costume. He starts talking in some weird language, and then I'm . . . er, _escorted, _shall we say, back to this huge house,' Greg said, pointing vaguely about himself, 'and some dark haired guy runs out, in the same kind of costume and yaps away to Blondie, and then Blondie turns to me, and stares for an age, before commanding me to follow him, and leads me in here, where another dude with a different costume is sitting, and then he stands up and asks me if I know you, so I'm like, yeah, and then he nods and says that you are –' Gregory made quotation marks in the air ' – "in peril" and then says that I can stay if I like, and you should wake up in a few hours. And that he'd be back then.' Gregory finished, and attempted to ruffle his hair again, feeling slightly guilty about all that he had left out of his tale.

Deirdre's eyes followed his nervous gesture to his hair, before she frowned, and her gaze flicked to his ears, and she stifled a scream.

Gregory's handsome face contorted, as Aoife cried out.

'HOLY HELL, GREGORY, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?'

Gregory was not the tanned, freckled blue-eyed, cropped-blonde haired fellow Deirdre remembered. He stared at her, an almost beseeching way, his alabaster face unblemished and somehow sharper, more aerial, less human. His face had lost it's mortal softness, tightening and sculpting itself into something quite different, the high bones in his cheeks more defined, and the tips of his ears pointed. His blond crop had disappeared, and in its place was a messy head of long, dark hair.

He was a different Gregory, and Deirdre couldn't believe she hadn't spotted it at once, but as her head gave another lurch, she understood. Even if it made no sense. Greg.

Martini-drinking, reformed chain-smoking, camp, handsome, creative, talented, irritating, gentle Greg?

A fictional character?

'You're an elf?'

'No!' Gregory cried, louder than he had meant to. Deirdre started, and he looked apologetic.

'I mean, no, I'm not. I mean, I wasn't this morning. Or … yesterday morning. Whatever day it was. I don't know what the hell is going on, Dee. I really don't. And I just –'

Gregory's tormented explanations were cut short by a gentle knock on the door. Both heads turned at once, as "Blondie" walked in, an apologetic expression on his face, and looking too tall for the room, somehow. Deirdre forgot to breathe for a moment. Well, more than a moment, really.

He was beautiful. That was really the only word to describe him. His golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, and his blue eyes glowed in the smooth planes of his face.

Deirdre felt like a sack of crap in comparison, and wondered at the oddness of that. Being surrounded by rosebud-like creatures in the theatre almost twenty four-seven as she was should have desensitized her somewhat to feeling inadequate in comparison to others. But he was … sublime.

Deirdre had a brief eighties moment as she suddenly thought of the video to 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' by Bonnie Taylor. Glowing eyes … unearthly beauty … she glanced over to Gregory to see if he was thinking the same thing, which happened surprisingly often, and was surprised to see an angrily expectant look on his usually placid face.

'Well?' he sneered. 'Come to throw a few more riddles into the mix, eh?'

The blonde elf frowned slightly, and directed a bow towards Deirdre.

'Mae Govannen, arwen en amin,' he purred in a voice that, had Deirdre been standing, would have reduced her to her knees. Her rigorous training for the stage was the only thing that kept her from toppling over sideways in her bed.

As it was, she couldn't quite keep her jaws closed.

'Ah-ha ha … hi,' she stuttered out. The being smiled indulgently at her, blatantly ignoring Gregory's scowls.

'So, hate to interrupt the moment, chaps, but _would _you mind explaining what the goddamn hell is going on here?' Gregory demanded. The blonde elf turned gracefully to glare at him.

'The lady is wearied,' he said, pointedly in the most amazingly accented voice Deirdre had ever heard.

'I don't give a –' Gregory imputed a few well-chosen swear-words into the sentence, 'if the lady is wearied. She deserves answers; I deserve answers – we both deserve some freakin' answers! So, for Gods' sake, give us some!' he fumed. Blondie stared at him for longer than was strictly polite, before bowing again to Deirdre and saying, 'I will fetch the lord of the land.'

He withdrew from the room with more elegance than should have been legal, and only then did Deirdre begin breathing again in earnest. Gregory shot her a daggers look.

'Jeez, Greg, so_rry_! Where did the mutual hatred shoot up from?' Deirdre teased, examining her bright room with excited eyes. Gregory picked moodily at his clothes, which, Deirdre noted on closer examination, were still his Legolas costume. His leg was jogging an anxious tempo, and Deirdre reached over and pressed it down.

'Stop,' she warned, and he did so, his frown suddenly transforming into the grin that she knew so well.

'Better,' she smiled, leaning back, satisfied.

A tall, dark haired elf swept into the small room, and bowed silently to Deirdre, echoing Blondie's words. She managed to smile gratefully that time, and when the elf looked up, not to die, or drown in his silver eyes.

_Wow . . ._

It was tough; trying to bite back the inner fan-girl was difficulty, and Deirdre was sure, it would be even more difficult when she would finally know what's going on.

The elf looked back up, and sat swiftly down on a chair near the door.

'I think explanations are due all around,' he told her. Deirdre nodded. Gregory scowled. The elf waited. Deirdre caught on, with a flair of unease.

'I can't give you answers, mister. Look, I'm still trying to figure out if this is a drug trip. I mean, I've heard of people having adverse reactions to the stuff they give you in hospitals, but this is totally insane. I mean, come on! Maybe it was penicillin, though … you know, my dad's allergic to that–'

Gregory sighed, and cut her off, knowing well enough that once she got started, Deirdre could ramble for hours. It was especially funny when she was drunk. But they didn't have time for that now.

'Here's an idea – how about you tell us just where the hell we are, and we'll work from there,' he suggested, raking a hand through his hair again, and grimacing.

Though Deirdre disapproved of Gregory's attitude, and in all honesty, found it thoroughly disconcerting, and out of character for her sunny friend, she was curious too and let it go. She was also slightly glad that Greg had stopped her before she could embarrass herself any further.

She turned expectantly to the hesitant elf-thing, who regarded both with grave eyes before beginning.

'You are in the house of Elrond, in Rivendell, Middle Earth.'

Deirdre continued frowning at the man in deep concentration. The words hadn't yet sunk into her tired brain.

Gregory was frowning again, not looking surprised; instead, looking fearful, and dispirited, as if something terrible was being confirmed.

'Right . . .' Deirdre said, slowly, before her mind caught up with her.

'Are you … serious? What? That's just … in_sane! _What the hell?! How?? Wh- OH MY FREAKING GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS?

It was had been an epic battle with the fan-girl within. The fan-girl triumphed.

Her eyes blazed with a fevered intensity, and she was hyperventilating, though she knew logically that she shouldn't. There was nothing that was proving this dude's point. Sure, his ears were pointy. She had no idea where she was. So what, he was unnaturally beautiful, and graceful, and poised, and cultured, and –

Yeah, so, he was pretty easy on the eyes . . . so what? She was an actress; the whole business depended on smoke and mirrors … or rather, excellent make-up artists. She worked in a theatre, and knew that prosthetic ears were not that hard to nab. This whole place could be an elaborate set-up. His eyes, contacts. He could be a fully trained ballet dancer.

Yeah. Sure. If that was the case, then why the hell was she sitting in his mansion with a co-star? Who was still in costume, and apparently muddling through an identity crisis.

"Lord Elrond", if that was his real name, frowned slightly at her reaction, but she didn't care. Gregory half-smiled, but then his face twisted into a pained expression, and he clapped a hand to his forehead, gasping slightly. Deirdre turned to him at once.

'Gregory?' she ventured, panicked. He took a moment, before he blinked up, and Deirdre relaxed momentarily, before he turned a murderous glare to the elf-man, who remained as cool and collected as if nothing had happened.

'That will happen every now and then, as I warned you, Arphenion,' he said, coolly, as Gregory tensed.

'Stop freakin' calling me that,' he said tersely, through clenched teeth. Deirdre's eyes darted between the two; the edgy lithe youth, and the graceful grave elf, wondering what on earth they were talking about.

'Um . . .' she began, trailing off.

_Maybe I don't want to know._

'You know what?' Gregory suddenly exclaimed, leaping off his chair, with more grace than the gangling youth normally ever possessed, and striding to the door.

'I'm out of here. I'm sick of this place already, you liar.'

And with that, he slammed out of the room, as Deirdre winced. The elf stared out after him for a while, before turning his silver gaze back to Deirdre.

'Well,' he began, before pausing.

'Where would you like me to start?'

xXx

**A/N: Okay, now REALLY pity me! My exams start TOMORROW, and I'm writing fan fiction! Holy cow! But thanks to my lovely reviers scarlet rebelle and Li. You guys rule! YAY FOR YOU!! But no one has guessed Blondie's identity yet! Oh, hurry up, otherwise Dee might beat you to it! At one point in her life she was a blonde, and all, you know!**

**Next up: Greg pouts even though he's far too old, Dee attacks him with a hairbrush, and Ritz appears. And then swears.**

**PLEASE REVIEW!! PITY ME!! -Wraithlike xxx  
**


	4. Chapter 4: Costume Drama

~Chapter Four~

~Costume Drama~

Gregory was in something of a pickle.

It had been four days since he had arrived in "Middle Earth", if that was, in fact where he was, instead of on some highly crafted set, which he was still inclined to hope for. So much, in fact, that he still took to trying to snap delicate pieces of wood to se if they were just well-painted ply-board, or tapped windows to see the quality of glass, and occasionally attempted to surreptitiously pull people's hair to see if it was real or no. So far, this had been met with some annoyance.

Mooching about this crazy set was starting to become repetitive, in his continual black humour. Stupid liars! Why wouldn't they just let him home? Better yet, why wouldn't they rewind time, and erase the stupid fairy tales they had told him.

The swine.

He was, at that moment, sitting on the balcony railings two stories up, in a complete disregard for his personal safety and kicking the wall moodily. It was balmy evening, and he was avoiding people again. The gentle wind lifted his new dark hair around his face pleasantly, but he merely grimaced, and shoved it roughly behind his ears. This was stupid! His hair was blonde! And it had been a while since his teenage grunge years. Long hair was out.

The whole situation wouldn't be so awful if he had any control over what was going on, and he wasn't being lied to. Well, this was a pretty nice place. People were nice, he supposed, for his captors, that was. Some pretty good-looking girls. Nice threads. But all the lies were getting to him. Stupid liars.

Yes. Because _Gregory_ was so totally an _elf_.

Tcah. Yeah. _That _was so totally going to fly.

It wasn't as if there was even space for the dude's lies to fit. Greg had a perfect memory of his childhood, adolescent and adult years. There was not gaping hole needing to be filled. No time for him to have been transplanted here. He remembered his childhood very well, thanks.

A big house some place fancy, with horses and fields and a house-keeper and everything … before he jacked it in and ran off to live with his brother in London when he was sixteen. A grotty apartment, but it was right in the buzz of London. Then a grotty room in college (thank you, scholarship) and that was life. Sure, lots of other stuff had happened in between (being dis and re-inherited several times in quick succession and his brother landing up in the crazy-house) but that was his life, in general. He could remember his father. He could remember his school.

He remembered the sincerity in the guy who called himself Elrond's face, and it sickened him. It really did. It sickened him that someone could try so hard to fool him for what appeared to be no reason. They were getting nothing from him, so why keep up the charade for so long? How was it beneficial to them?

He angrily picked at the embroidery on his tunic. He had only agreed to wear it because literally, it was that or his birthday suit. His Legolas costume had mysteriously vanished one morning, and in it's place, this had appeared. He had marched straight to Elrond in the leggings he was being forced to wear as pyjamas, and demanded his own clothes. After a lengthy argument, he found he had no choice but to obey.

He was finding the sudden discipline a bit off-putting. For Christ's sake, he was almost twenty-seven! The only people he took orders from were directors. He was his own man. It had taken long enough, but that's what he was, now. He hadn't take orders since before he had hit puberty. But he was a man now. And twenty-seven!

So why did he feel like an aggravated teenager?

Stupid liars.

Greg had always hated liars. Acting and lying were two very different things, and it had continually irritated him that many people bundled the two in together.

And now, he was being fed a load of deep gibberish about being born an elf, and protection, and being thousands of years old, _really, _but only aging at a human rate, yada yada yada. His memories would come back in time, apparently, most of them.

But it was lies. The strange flashes were nothing but headaches. Nothing more.

What did they take him for?

~oOo~

Deirdre wasn't having a real picnic of a time either.

Elrond had gibbered on in an attempt to explain the situation to her, but her fatigued mind found it difficult to cope with much more information, and swam dizzily. Elrond had pitied her, and bid her rest a while longer. She had fallen asleep before he had even left the room.

However, upon returning to full consciousness, in a great deal of pain, her entire body aching, she had been introduced to a shy young elven girl, who was, apparently, hardly of age at eighty. Deirdre had smiled in a sickly fashion at her and silently prayed that she might look as killer as that chick at sixty, but hadn't held out much hope. The girl had helped her hobble to an enormously elaborate bathroom with a sunken bath in it, which Deirdre had almost thrown herself into, before thinking the better of it, and wondering if there was something like a shallow end to it. She had a flashback of watching the fourth Harry Potter movie in her sitting room, as she lowered herself into the hot water, and grinned to herself.

The girl sat respectfully in the other room, and Deirdre was glad. This situation was beyond strange as it was. But she was an actress. She would adapt, or die trying. In today's society, even having a bath was a little odd. Showers, anyone?

Not in Middle Earth, honey.

The water was warm, and reminded her of a Jacuzzi. Just without the jets. She had stayed in a hotel for about two and a half weeks before she had rented an apartment, and had experimented with the Jacuzzi a few times, but hadn't really enjoyed the experience. She didn't think she was European enough. It seemed more of a Greg thing, but they didn't have one in the apartment.

As Deirdre luxuriated, and before she began wondering what she should wash herself and her hair with, she ruminated on her first few weeks in New York.

She had been all of seven months younger, and still eighteen, and had been forced to check into a hotel that, despite having a Jacuzzi, had been insanely grotty. She had hated it, and that combined with the fact that she hadn't been away from home alone for such a long time before had caused a few sleepless nights. It was quickly draining her meagre resources, too, but she couldn't seem to find another good place to live, and had grown increasingly panicked, before dissolving into tears before a bemused Greg and Kevin, and blurting out her story.

Gregory had widened his eyes as she spoke, and when she finished, threw his hands into the air.

'Why don't you just come and live with me, you daft pillock?!'

With that elegant sentiment, Deirdre's problems had all but disappeared. It turned out that Gregory's landlady had been looking for someone to rent the flat on the top floor of his small block, and wasn't asking for much rent, the place being rather beaten up. Deirdre had moved in cheerfully, and she and Greg had cemented their friendship forevermore by spending a weekend making the place habitable, while Deirdre slept on Greg's sofa. It was like a fairytale; if fairytales stretched to living in a beat up apartment block in New York above your very best friend (who could possibly be gay) and scraping a living on Broadway. But it was Deirdre's dream, and she wouldn't give it up for anything.

Deirdre opened her eyes and looked around the rim of the bath, before spying a shallow bowl, full of a creamy green mulch, which, Deirdre hoped, was intended for her hair.

When she emerged later, feeling light and airy, her aches almost gone, her little elf girl was still there, sitting in her chamber with a bowed head. She immediately rose, and smiled shyly in a compliment to the rose-coloured robes Deirdre had struggled into, before combing out her hair.

Deirdre found this mildly disconcerting; even though she was used to her hair being messed with in theatre and on set, but this chick had just gone straight into fixing it without a single word. Deirdre wondered if she could actually speak English, and decided to find out, since Gregory had turned AWOL, and she wanted to distract herself from the robes she was wearing. They were gorgeous, and all, but in general, Deirdre preferred being a jeans-and-sneakers girl. Occasionally a tights-and-skirts girl, with a few crazy overly dramatic flairs to whatever she was wearing, but these were long, flowing, and made her look like a woman. It was frightening. She was still sixteen in her head.

They were probable the prettiest things she had ever worn, too, but in general pretty things scared her. They were always breakable.

Deirdre had worn many odd things in her life, and seen odder things backstage. Plenty of pretty thigns back there, but this totally put the rest of htme to shame. Rose coloured. Long, sweeping skirt with long, sweeping sleeves. It fit her well, almost as well as the Evenstar gown custom made for her. But it was a greeny silver, made to accentuate her paleness and made her look less human. But this was pretty. Lively. It couldn't be a costume. It was too ... real.

'So. Tell me about you,' Deirdre attempted, plucking up her courage, and bringing in her knowledge of people to play.

The elf-maiden had frozen mid sweep of the brush, before starting up her rhythm again, in silence. Deirdre paused, before trying again.

'Er … do you have – any brothers or sisters, maybe?' she hazarded. The elf-girl smiled, and shook her head.

'Is that 'no' or 'I have no idea what the crazy daisy Irish girl is jabbering on about'?'

The elf-girl laughed, a pretty youthful sound, before lapsing back into silence. Deirdre sighed. The silence wasn't uncomfortable; merely uncomprehending. She could survive it. And the gentle brushing of her hair really was quite relaxing. Deirdre closed her eyes.

She tried to remember what she could about the Lord of the Rings. She could do this. She could totally do this. She had played Arwen, for God's sake. Alrightly. She _had _read the Lord of the Rings, after all, unlike most of her co-stars, or rather, unlike Gregory. She hadn't just lied to Ritz.

_So think, child._ Somewhere in her mind there had to be a memory of those books. She had loved them, after all, and had dreamed about them since she was fifteen. She had loved the movies to bits, as every nerdish teenage girl had. Deirdre suddenly remembered in a kind of flash that she was still a nerdish teenage girl.

_WOW!! I'm still only nineteen!!_

It occurred to Deirdre to wonder idly how hard she had actually hit her head that time.

So recap. Elves. Immortal beings. Pointy ears. Um . . . Elvish! They spoke Elvish. Which would explain the language barrier . . . and they were very pretty. And smart, though that might have something to do with how scarily old most of 'em were.

Terribly romantic. Some could choose mortality . . . or was that just Elrond and his line? Deirdre couldn't remember. She remembered the names Beren and Luthien, but after that she drew a blank. And there was Elbereth … and Eärendil … Deirdre sighed. Now she was just being stupid, and quoting most of her song lyrics. Eärendil had something to do with the sun … or something … and Arwen! Yeah, _there _was something she knew about. Arwen, one of the half-elven line, daughter of Elrond and Celebrian, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn of the Golden Woods. Fabled beauty, and all that jazz, supposedly as beautiful as Luthien Tunivel, and then there was the deal with Aragorn, the scruffy ranger she had chosen over such gods as Legolas and Glorfindel. Deirdre sighed to herself as her mind wandered over their gorgeous visages. She had only seen Glorfindel that one time, briefly, where he and Greg were at loggerheads, but her eyes were still feeling partially blinded from Glory's glory.

And she could only imagine the wondrous Legolas …

Deirdre withdrew from her salivations when her shy elven friend said something quietly, in an unintelligible language. Deirdre blinked.

'I'm sorry, what?'

The elf girl smiled slowly, and shook her head, indicating so quickly Deirdre had trouble following with her dull human senses that she should go and see Elrond.

'Ah!' she exclaimed, finally understanding, and standing up so quickly that she almost tripped over her hem. She frowned. She wondered what she had been stoned with to make her so uncoordinated all of a sudden. For God's sake, she had portrayed an elf on the world's stage. She should be able to cross a flat surface in bare feet. Speaking of which, she needed shoes.

'Um ... hey! Do you know where Greg is, by any miracle? He's going to be pretty piss- I mean, pretty irritated to know I just abandoned him with massive concussion, and all,' she said, twisting her ring, thankful that it, at least, had survived her kidnap. Not that this wasn't lovely, or anything ...

The elf girl shook her head, quickly and made the, 'let's get to Elrond, child!' gesture again, more urgently. Panic bloomed in Deirdre.

_Oh, Greg, what have you done now, you fool? _

Mentally, Deidre attacked him with her hairbrush. She had done it enough times in realy likfe to know exactly what his reaction would be. He would cower, and squeal, before overpowering her. He'd probably try and attack her with the brush, then ... good old Greg ...

At least they were together. Even if he looked different, and was acting oddly. She had only seen him briefly, after all. Deirdre wished she knew what was going on. This whole situation was less novel now, and more frightening. Elves. Sure.

It was too strange. She needed answers. And her feet were cold.

'Um … are there any ... do you have shoes for me? Shooooes,' she tried, indicating her feet. The girl nodded seriously, and moving in a blur placed a pair of pale pink slippers on the ground, and attempted to push Deirdre's size sixes into them. Deirdre found this again all a little strange, but didn't want to test the girl's patience. She might look all sweetness and light, but they always did. It usually hid a heart of blackness and horror.

Deirdre thought she might have seen a few too many horror movies.

'Lead on,' she grinned jovially at her elven wardrobe mistress in a desperate attempt to appear cheerful and at ease. The elf-girl dipped solemnly, and began set a gentle, graceful pace, leaving Deirdre to trip along in her wake, and try not to cause too much damage.

oOo

Ritz didn't want to open his eyes. He couldn't remember closing them, but he didn't care. He didn't think he'd ever felt more peaceful in his whole life. This wasn't like the post-opening night euphoria, the jittery joy. It wasn't the relief of a show over. It wasn't anything he'd ever felt before. It was so quiet. So, so quiet.

Perhaps he had always longed for intense quiet. It seemed like such a beautiful thing to his ears, full of the raucous noise and hum of New York even in sleep.

Was he dead? The thought stung a little, and he wondered if that was because it was ringing true. Dead. That was an odd thought. He'd been alive a good long time, though … and he led a very high-stress life. Hmm. Maybe that made sense.

It was nice just to lie like this … drifting sweetly along …

_Ping._

Something wet hit his forehead. He frowned, preferring to remain in his little trance, alone, unbothered, completely –

_Ping._

Come to think of it, though, whatever he was lying on felt sort of wet too. Oh, no. Not consciousness. Anything but that. That meant having to work. Having to direct. If there's a God, He wouldn't be so cruel as to take a man from his eternal rest, just to pander to some grease-painted, spoiled little –

_Ping._

He couldn't stop them. His eyes shot opened.

Sixty years hadn't troubled his vision, and it took hardly a moment to see what it was that was dripping onto his face. The shiny tip of an arrow, trained onto his forehead had little droplets running off it, Chinese water torture fashion onto his face.

Wakefulness couldn't be suppressed.

'FOR FU-K'S SAKE!' he screamed, and at that moment, didn't care.

xXx

**A/N: He he. Sorry about Ritz's brief moment of frustration. Don't worry, he's got it all out his system, now. **

**AND CONGRATULATIONS TO kat75643!! YAY FOR YOU! Fair play, Kat! How did you know? That's admirable. A big bualadh bos (round of applause) to you child, agus an plata mor brioscai! OMD, IS AOIBHEANN LIOM BHEITH AG ITHE BRIOSCAI! TA SIAD GO hIONTACH!**

**Ahem. Sorry. Roughly translated, it works out as ' ... and a big plate of biscuits. OMG, I love to eat biscuits. THEY'RE AMAZING!'**

**So, get used to it. Soon enough Dee will start spouting random little patches of Gaeilge. Anyway. It's FRIDAY!! Exams are over until Monday ... it's snowing over here ... Hot 'N Cold is playing ... AND I HAVE PLOT!**

**Please review! WELL DONE AGAIN, KAT!**

**Next up: Deirdre ruins some irreplacable valuable things, and panics ... Greg tries to punch Elrond in the face, and Ritz is dragged along in the wake of some angry elves.  
**


	5. Chapter 5: Fudging Elves

~Chapter Five~

~Fudging Elves~

There was something about him that made Deirdre feel a variety of unpleasant things.

a): She'd just committed a major felony. Perhaps more than one. Perhaps more than a felony. What was the definition of a felony, anyway?

b): She was about to be given negative test results. Like, terminal ones. Or really bad ones. Or really weird ones. (She'd gotten those before – "How is it possible to fail P.E., and yet study dance?" "How did you break your arm?" "I hand-jived too hard.")

c): She was being expelled.

But that was ridiculous. She was a good person. And she hadn't been here long enough to commit felonies. And she was as healthy as a horse! … sort of. And she couldn't be expelled. She had finished school when she was eighteen. And she was now the grand old age of nineteen. So she couldn't be expelled. That was stupid.

It was just the air of the man. Elf-man. Half-elf-man.

Far too much like someone ready to smite her where she stood. And really, really handsome. Maybe not quite her type. A little too steely. But still. Amazing.

Elrond, half-elven lord of Rivendell had his hands clasped together and was surveying the girl through his grey eyes. Something metallic and otherworldly about them … her eyes were hazel. Not quite brown, not quite green … just – random.

'I don't know what I should tell you,' he said, sounding perplexed.

'I tried to explain things to Aphenion, but made an ill-attempt at it, and now he believes me to be a liar and villain. I tried my best … I have no experience in such matters,' he said, sounding quite at a loss. Deirdre licked her lips thoughtfully.

'Well … okay, Greg has a bit of a short fuse, especially when he thinks he's being lied to. Maybe … okay, explain this deal to me, and I'll try and translate it back to Greg. Maybe he'll believe me … but look, what the hell is going on? I mean, seriously … one minute, I'm in a theatre, the next, poof! Hello, forest!'

Elrond (if that was his real name) frowned, and focused more intensely on the girl. She hurriedly remembered to take a breath, and glanced away.

'Perhaps you should explain your story, and I will try to explain mine.'

Deirdre thought a moment, and trying to assemble her tale together in a way he would understand.

'Okay. Well, first off, my name's Deirdre. Hi. Nice to meet you.'

Elrond smiled, slightly and nodded at her.

'I'm from Ireland, but I moved to New York to be in one of the shows there when I was eighteen. The Lord of the Rings.'

Elrond looked lost and fearful already, so Deirdre went on trying to explain without freaking the shit out of him. Eventually, she had recounted things up to the point where she had landed on the ground after falling out of a tree, and Elrond looked less fearful than extremely serious.

Deirdre lowered her eyes self-consciously, when she finished, feeling very unprotected all of a sudden. He spoke quietly, and sounded hesitant.

'You … your portrayed Arwen,' he said, and he sounded so full or pride and adoration as he said her name, Deirdre was quite surprised. She supposed family ties in Elvish society must be a long stronger than in her fragile world. She pondered for a moment her own evanescence, and what part she could possibly have to play in this strange staging of life, and then starting humming 'My Immortal' in her head, which turned out to be quite distracting.

'Well, yeah, I did. I – I know I'm probably nothing like her, but that's the truth,' she said, running a hand through her hair as she laughed nervously. Elrond suddenly smiled, dimly.

'No, you do remind me a certain amount of her. Arwen was young once, too. And you are obviously still a child of your people,' he said, and Deirdre would have liked to find what he said condescending, but a great lump of emotion rose inexplicably to her throat, making speech quite impossible. He sounded sad. Very sad; an acute sense of longing touched his words and he was all at once completely and utterly alien to her.

So many thousands of miles away from being human, and yet somehow already one.

It was an odd, unsettling feeling, that affected Deirdre much more than she realised at the time. She would think of it again when faced with the imminent prospect of her mortality, but not for a good while yet.

'I suppose so … well, technically, I'm an adult, by the law of our world, but … I'm only nineteen. Still a kid, I suppose,' she said, and sighed. She felt very much like a kid still. It was all very well to swan off to New York straight out of school and pretend to know the ropes, but she really was too young for the life of fame and fashion she was growing accustomed to. She made a vow that when she returned to New York, and when her contract was up, she wouldn't sign on again. She'd go home, and study something worthwhile. Do something with her life.

Barely a moment had passed, but Elrond's eyes were still full of mists of years ago.

'I will tell you the story of our world now, though you seem to be quite well acquainted with it …' he began doubtfully, trailing off. She managed to meet his eyes with her dark ones and not shiver. He stared for a moment, before clearing his throat, and frowning, his head in his hands.

'Long ago … long, long ago, there was evil. There is always evil, where there are people, creatures with freedom of thought, or choice. Middle Earth was no different. And our children … our children learned to suffer in darkness, and no one wanted that. So, gradually we stopped having children. There were no Elvish children for a thousand years, which isn't that long in our minds. Gradually, when evil faded, so did the ills of the world. Three thousand years passed, a time of peace, though it could not last. And then … the darkness fell again. Darker, faster … harsher. Arphenion … the one you call Gregory … he was the last of the Elvish children born before the darkness. He … and some others were sent away to protect them. They shouldn't have returned. He shouldn't be here … we put our trust in the Valar.'

Elrond frowned, and Deirdre copied him in an attempt to understand.

'Sent away? From here? But here … well, it shouldn't exist. Dragons and elves … it's all just a story. It should be. The figment of the imagination of a man who recounted his tales of war in a way that was easy to read, easy to lose yourself in. Not – real.'

She continued hurriedly over the elf's frown.

'Look, I know, obviously, it's true, but seriously! I'm just trying to understand. And it's not working. I – don't – understand.'

He frowned too. _It's all so difficult, _Deirdre thought at once. _It's like we're desperately trying to understand each other, but it's just not working. Like we're trying to bridge a gap too far …_

'So, go on. I'll keep up. You sent Gregory away,' she prompted, shaking her head. _Ow. Headache._

Elrond stared at her as if trying to gauge her mood.

'Not just Gregory,' he said significantly.

It took Deirdre a few moments to realise what he was hinting at, and even when her brain registered the fact, it took another few minutes for her motor skills to catch up sufficiently. And even then, it was less than Shakespeare.

'SWEET BABY JESUS!'

And she was on her feet; the chair was on it's side, and Elrond's bright silvery eyes were glowing. _Turn around, bright-eyes …_

The window was the nearest reflective surface, and, as Deirdre, young, inexperienced Deirdre of Dublin threw herself to stare wildly into it, in another corner of Middle Earth, there appeared a young, shy man, a stranger to that world, appeared, feeling very dizzy and sickened, in the boudoir of a young lady.

Then he threw up.

Deirdre gasped, and raised a hand to her face, marvelling and shocked.

And then she pouted.

'What the fuck is up with that? How come I don't get to be an elf?' she demanded, re-examining her extremely mortal countenance, before swinging around to glare at Elrond, who for a moment was stuck by just how much like wilful Arwen she really was.

'I don't know,' was all he could manage. Her shoulders slumped.

'Well, that _sucks_. Greg – stupid, pretty Greg gets to be an elf, and just complains about it – damn it, what wouldn't I give to be one! Oh, _man! _That _bites!_'

Elrond frowned, as he laced his hands together.

'You were an elf, once.'

'Seriously, like?'

He stared at her, for a moment, as if trying to see another's face.

'Yes. Once.'

'What was I like? Was I like me? Did I look the same?'

Elrond smiled, and motioned to his desk.

'Sit down, child, and I will tell you.'

Deirdre sat, uncertainly, and Elrond dug deep into his long, pain-filled memories to procure some comfort for the lost child now in his care.

oOo

'Just because you're immortal doesn't mean you can't be injured!' the elven woman was raging at Gregory as she bound something around his ribs. Or at least, that was what he thought she might be saying … he was a little unclear on the technicalities of Gibberish.

He sighed anyway, for effect, pretty sure it was a universal gesture. The woman continued berating him, as he tried to ignore the pain of what was probably a fractured rib. Sighing was a bad idea. He settled instead to fidgeting with the bandage around his knuckles.

She finished, and ceased her chatter, before frowning at him, and tutting (in a way that made her sound really like a squirrel) before scurrying away with enviable grace.

Gregory sat on his bed, and slumped against the wall, staring out of the window blankly. Sure, it was pretty, but then again, so was he. There was more to people and places than looks. And he hated it.

There had been a time he had hated himself. He had hated his world at times too. Beauty had been hard to find, most of all within. And then he found something that made it worthwhile. The beguiling glamour of a stage. Slip into someone else's body. Feel what they feel; understand. He adored it. Everything about it. But most of all, what a family it had given him. It had given him her.

And then it took her away. She was different. And he was, more than anyone or thing else.

This stupid, beautiful world, with all of it's equally stupid and beautiful inhabitants. He didn't even know why he hated it. Perhaps it reminded him of himself; fair, inexplicable, bright and unknown.

Or maybe it was the fact that he knew it well. Too well. And the strange memories that kept resurfacing, no matter how hard he worked to keep them in check. He watched a waterfall drip idly in the distance, and remembered clearly a friend with long dark hair pushing him in and laughing. He turned angrily away, and his gaze settled on a vase over the fireplace, before he realised that the intricate pattern on it was the work of his own hand. He shoved his face into his hands in despair.

Who could blame him for wanting to learn the true potential of this body? Who?

It was only one storey. Shouldn't have hurt that much.

He tried not to think of the glorious abandon of the flight. Tried not to think of the relief it had given him.

Most of all, he tried not the think of his disappointment at waking. It was too much. Too hard. He didn't want to die. But there was a part of him, lurking and seductive that was trying to fool him otherwise.

A knock on the door.

'Leave me alone,' he moaned, and realised what an emo he sounded like. He dragged himself up (there seemed to be more of him than usual) and yanked the door open.

'Sorry to disturb you,' Blondie (_Glorfindel, _something in his head corrected irritatingly) said, looking ill-at-ease.

'Can I talk to you?'

_Fudging elves._

xXx

**A/N: Oh, my. Well, folks. I'm back from the mire of Junior Cert Mocks, and believe me, they were dreadful. Anyway, sorry for the delay. I have ideas now!! Mwa ha ha. Thanks for your reviews, keep them coming, because I love them all. Greg is feeling a little down, and we all know Glory is just going to irritate him further. Tune in soon for the next installment! And tell me what you think! -Wraithlike xxx**


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